


Adorned By Hours

by theprincessandtheking



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 15:12:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10389588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprincessandtheking/pseuds/theprincessandtheking
Summary: “Looking for something?”She starts at his voice, and the moment she turns to face him, her eyes lock on the watch that he extends to her. She huffs out a shaky breath, and a smile spreads across her face wider than any he’s ever seen from her. He tries not to wonder why the sight of it and the knowledge that he put it there makes his stomach flip.Two times Bellamy returns Clarke's father's watch to her, and one time he doesn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I haven't posted anything in a few weeks. Life got a bit crazy, but it's finally starting to simmer down a bit, so hopefully I'll have some more stuff out before the end of the week. Let me know what you think!

The first time he notices it, Bellamy is kneeling over a sorry looking pile of wood, vigorously moving his hands back and forth over a stick in a futile attempt to start a fire. He’s been at the task for nearly an hour, his palms rubbed raw and colored an angry red, and he can feel frustration pooling at the pit of his stomach. He swears under his breath when the twig snaps against the wood beneath it yet again, and he reaches for a new one.

He doesn’t look up when she kneels next to him.

“Hey,” Clarke says, and he bristles at the amount of pity she’s able to fit into one syllable.

“I don’t want your help.”

He hears her sigh, his eyes never leaving the spot where wood meets wood, rubbing even faster in the hopes that smoke will appear. It doesn’t.

“That stuff is too damp,” she says. “It’ll take a few more days before we stop feeling the effects of that rain storm.”

He doesn’t answer, hands working ever harder and making his shoulders burn with the effort. It’s been a long day, and he can feel the chill in the air that warns of the coming winter. He knows that if they don’t find better shelter, better blankets, more plentiful food sources, if he can’t _figure out how to make a goddamn fire,_ surviving the Grounders won’t matter. They’ll freeze to death before the Ark ever has a chance to make it to the ground.

Clarke places a hand softly over one of his, finally bringing it to a stop.

“Bellamy.”

The glint of sunshine off its glass is what brings his attention to it, reflecting a patch of light onto his own dark skin just next to it. The watch is loose on her wrist, allowing it to slide a bit further down the fair skin of her arm until it catches just above a small freckle that peeks out from beneath her shirtsleeve. Though the fabric of the band is frayed and the glass is cracked, it’s still more luxurious than anything his family would have dreamed of affording on the Ark.

He snaps at her before he can stop himself.

“A Princess should always have her jewels.”

Her head whips up at the comment, eyes wide. The hurt he finds in her gaze sends a pang of guilt through his gut, but the look is gone as quickly as it appears when she turns her stare back to the char mark on the wood in front of them. Bellamy swallows his apology, an awkward silence filling the space between them. He’s not sure how long it lasts, maybe two minutes, maybe thirty, before Clarke speaks again.

“It was my dad’s.”

He expected her to toss an insult back at him, to tell him off like all the other times she has when he was a total dick to her. Instead, her voice sounds small and tight, like she’s trying to swallow emotions she doesn’t want to deal with. Bellamy feels his stomach lurch with shame. Before he can say anything, apologize, tell her he’s an ass and she shouldn’t listen to him, she stands.

As she turns away, she pauses. He can feel her hesitation as she seems to consider something. A few moments later, he hears a clatter next to him. He turns to find a stone and a makeshift blade made from the metal of the drop ship at his feet. Clarke looks down at him, her eyes soft with sadness as her fingers tap gently against her hip.

“Flint,” she clarifies. “If you hit it with steel, it makes sparks.”

She doesn’t wait for a thank you. He watches as she retreats, her footsteps quiet against the still damp earth.

Bellamy has a fire going a few minutes later.

  *******

When he sees it again a little over a week later, he’s just as caught off guard has he was previously. He’s pulling his tattered shirt over his wet curls at the bathing site at the river a short walk from camp when a flash of sunlight catches his eye. Something metallic peers out from a crevice in one of the many boulders lining the water, and his curiosity nudges him toward it.

Bellamy recognizes the watch immediately, the threads splaying from the edges of the shabby band pulling him back to that night by the campfire, and he feels a fresh wave of remorse crash over him as he recalls the way he snapped at Clarke. He’s surprised to see it there—over the last week he’s noticed that she wears it everywhere, her fingertips tracing the cracks in the glass when she’s anxious or stressed.

He retrieves it without hesitating, his hands carefully unsnagging the fabric from the jagged edges of the stone without damaging it any further, and tucks it into his pocket.

When he returns to camp, he makes his way to the drop ship immediately. He pulls back the tarp that covers the doorway to find a harried Clarke sifting through drawer after drawer of the metal cabinet she uses to store her makeshift medical supplies. She runs her fingers through her hair with anxiety, causing a few of her curls to weave in messy patterns against her knuckles as she sucks in a deep breath.

“Looking for something?”

She starts at his voice, and the moment she turns to face him, her eyes lock on the watch that he extends to her. She huffs out a shaky breath, and a smile spreads across her face wider than any he’s ever seen from her. He tries not to wonder why the sight of it and the knowledge that he put it there makes his stomach flip.

She’s next to him in an instant, her hands trembling as she takes it from him.

“Where did you find it?” she grins up at him, her blue eyes misty with relief.

“Tucked into a crack in one of the rocks at the bathing site,” he tells her. He watches as her fingers tremble with the clasp. Without thinking, he lays his hands over hers to steady them, loosening the metal buckle himself.

“Thank you.” She extends her wrist to him and avoids his gaze, and he’s not sure if he imagines a subtle note of bashfulness in her voice.

“A Princess should always have her jewels.”

Her eyes dart to his, and he notes with a surprising amount of fondness that her eyes are wide beneath her dark lashes. His tone is so different than it had been the last time he spoke those words. It’s not an apology, but the small nod she gives him in return tells him she understands. She doesn’t press him further, and he’s glad for it. She thanks him a couple more times before he leaves her with the same wide grin on her face.

Bellamy’s own smile doesn’t fade for the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s not sure how he finds himself on the supply run team. Camp Jaha was short on protection after they’d sent such a large team with Kane on his most recent trip to Polis. The Ark couldn’t spare any more guards, so Bellamy had volunteered as an extra gun to accompany the group.

It was a mundane mission, really, compared to all the other times he’d found himself in the middle of a Grounder village. They’d been sent to trade for items in low supply at Camp Jaha—furs, salt for preserving meats, the basics. He eyes the Grounder before him while Erin, a slight woman with mousy brown hair, tries in vain to persuade the heavily tattooed man to accept her terms.

He pays little attention to the negotiation, merely watching carefully to make sure the heated debate doesn’t escalate. He knew how quickly things could go south with these people: one minute you’re having a calm discussion, the next they have a blade to your throat. You can never be too careful. So he sits back, lets the woman handle herself while keeping a close eye on the man with his arms crossed obstinately across his chest.

Bellamy isn’t sure what makes him notice it, maybe a trick of the light, maybe fate. He doesn’t know why it strikes him out of the ordinary. He doesn’t know why his eyes latch onto it immediately. He doesn’t know why it’s there. All he knows is that the Grounder has Clarke’s father’s watch. And he knows he must get it back. For her.

“Where did you get that?” Bellamy interrupts, and both sets of eyes turn sharply to his face.

The man follows his gaze to his wrist, arm snaking up to stroke his long, gnarled beard with curiosity.

“I do not see how that is any of the Sky People’s concern.”

Bellamy shakes his head, a hand automatically threading impatiently in his mess of curls as he tries to gather his thoughts.

“No, sorry,” he says, his mouth trying to form words he’s not entirely sure how to construct. “It’s just—“

He considers his options. He knows the Grounder probably won’t be willing to part with such a rarity easily, and the trade probably won’t come cheap. He also knows that if he tells the man that the watch belongs to a friend, the price will probably go up. He elects to skip the backstory.

“What do you want for it?”

“It is not for sale,” the man replies gruffly, eyes narrowing and arms folding back over the cracked leather of his tunic.

Bellamy lets out a chuckle that he hopes sounds more confident than he feels.

“Everything is for sale if you’re willing to pay enough for it,” he says, squaring his shoulders and meeting the hard stare directly. “What’s this going to take?”

The man doesn’t speak for a few moments, his eyes searching Bellamy’s face. Bellamy feels his jaw tighten under his gaze, and he forces his face to remain neutral.

“Your shirt.”

Bellamy practically flinches. The request is essentially the last thing he expected. He glances down at the threadbare blue fabric, worn but still soft against his skin.

“My shirt?”

“It is unusual,” the Grounder tells him. “We do not have dyes that color here. It would sell easily in the local markets.”

He’s surprised to feel a bit of sadness tugging at his heart. It was the same shirt he’d worn on the day they’d come down on the drop ship. How many times had he fought for his life in this shirt? How many times had he survived? He didn’t expect to be so attached to a blue Henley, but here he was, a sad smile slipping onto his face.

It’s a small price to pay, he thinks.

“Deal.”

Bellamy slips his guard jacket from his shoulders and tugs the shirt over his head, only offering it to the man when he unclasps the watch from his wrist and extends it in return. He shrugs the jacket back on over bare skin, tucking the newfound treasure securely into his pocket.

It’s the dead of winter, and the three-hour hike back to Camp Jaha is a cold one.

Bellamy finds he doesn’t mind.

  *******  

His lips are blue when he glances at the mirror in his cabin of the Ark. He’s still shivering, goosebumps spreading across his skin as he fumbles through his drawers. He eventually finds a tan shirt and puts it on. It’s not as soft as his blue one, but he’ll manage.

His muscles twitch with anticipation and he dresses as quickly as possible, eager to find Clarke. He pulls the watch from his jacket pocket and inspects it carefully. The face still holds the same cracks, and the band is still in decent condition, if a bit dirtier than before. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and his hand curls around it tightly as he pulls his door shut behind him.

The walk to the medbay takes a lifetime, and when he arrives, Clarke and Abby are huddled around a young boy with a scrape on his forehead. Bellamy leans against the doorframe, and he watches with fondness Clarke makes funny faces at the child while Abby dabs at the wound with antiseptic that burns Bellamy’s nose. She notices his presence a few minutes later after placing a small bandage over the cut and sending the boy away with a grin.

“You’re back,” she says, her eyes crinkling at the corners as her smile widens. “We weren’t expecting you until—“

There’s a sharp intake of breath as he holds out his hand. Her eyes shift from the watch to Bellamy’s face several times before she approaches quickly. She accepts the gift hungrily, her lips seeming to fumble for words. When she looks up at him, tears have pooled in her blue depths.

“Where did you find this?” she whispers.

The emotion in her eyes makes Bellamy’s heart flutter. She looks at him like he has just handed her the world.

No one has ever looked at him like that.

He takes the watch from her hands, undoes the buckle, and offers a hand of his own. She obliges, holding out her wrist, her eyes searching his face. He doesn’t know what she hopes to find, and he fights to keep his fingers from shaking as he fastens the band of the watch.

“A Princess should always have her jewels.”

Her eyes meet his in recognition, and she lets out a contented sigh. He sees her shoulders relax, and he knows she bites her lip to keep it from trembling. The sight makes his heart swell.

Freezing temperatures be damned. Bellamy knows this was worth it.

 

* * *

 

 

He feels the skin of his knuckles break the second it makes contact with the steel of the door, and he swears loudly. He plants his hands on his hips as he paces rapidly across the room, his breath coming in loud rasps. He thinks his teeth will shatter from the force of his clenching jaw, but he doesn’t care.

“Bellamy.”

His shoulders tense at her voice behind him, and he stops in his tracks. He turns to find her face drawn, a sadness draped across her features that he wants desperately to take away but he doesn’t fucking know how. He doesn’t know how to make any of this better.

“Don’t say it,” he growls.

She steps toward him with kind eyes, her arms folded loosely over her chest.

“This wasn’t your fault.”

“Like hell it wasn’t, Clarke!” he roars, his voice echoing off the metal walls around him. He turns away and resumes his pacing, his feet easily finding the path he’s made over and over again.

“That hunting party was dead before they even left camp.” He could hear the pleading in her voice. “Trikru was waiting for them. There was nothing you could have done.”

He stops. He squeezes his eyes shut and runs a haggard hand over his face.

“I should have been there,” he said, and he hates the way his voice trembles. “I knew I should have gone with them. I knew they needed the extra protection.”

He flinches when he feels her hand on his shoulder.

“And if you had, you’d probably be dead, too.”

He’s surprised by the tightness in her voice. She says it with certainty, her words strained but sure.

“I have to go to Polis for a few days,” she says.

He whips around so fast it makes his head spin, his eyes flicking across her face, anger flooding through him at the fierce determination he finds there.

“No.”

“I don’t have a choice, Bellamy,” she says. “Trikru is taking out our hunting parties, and they’re growing more and more hostile by the day. If I don’t talk to Roan, this is only going to get worse.”

“Why does it have to be you?” he seethes, his hands finding her shoulders, begging her to stay put. “Send Kane, send your mom, send _me_ for fuck’s sake.”

She’s shaking her head before he can even finish the sentence.

“He listens to me, and you know it,” she counters. “I’m the only one who can fix this.”

“So you’re willing to risk your life _again_ to go negotiate with a guy who has repeatedly shown that he’s only willing to honor our alliance when it’s convenient for him?”

“And you’d rather be the one to risk yours instead?”

“You’re damn right I would!” he barks.

“Damn it, Bellamy, why do you do this? Why do you always have to put all of this responsibility on your shoulders?”

“Because I’m fucking terrified that the next time things go to shit, you’re just going to leave again!”

She visibly recoils at his words, and his breath comes in pants. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, hadn’t meant to verbalize his biggest fear. But they’re out there, and he can’t take them back. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted as she searches for words.

A tense silence blankets the room that Bellamy doesn’t dare to break. It seems like years before she moves, her hands fumbling with her wrist. She grabs his arm and pulls it toward her gently, and before he can process what she’s doing, he feels the cold metal against his skin.

His brow furrows at the sight of her father’s watch on his own wrist. Her fingers slip beneath his chin, tilting his eyes up to meet the blue of hers.

“I want you to hold onto this for me,” she tells him, her voice soft but resolute. “I’ll be back in a few days. I promise.”

She is gone before he can find the words to respond.

*******

It’s been a week since Clarke left, and Bellamy is losing it a bit. He thinks he’s starting to drive everyone crazy with the number of times he asks for news, and every time he is disappointed to learn nothing new.

The watch hasn’t left his wrist since she left, the roughness of the band now a permanent sensation on his skin. It holds him steady, reminds him that there is a promise made, that she _will_ come home. She wouldn’t leave it behind. She wouldn’t leave _him_ behind.

When he hears the alarm that signals the opening of Arkadia’s gates, his feet are running before he can think. And suddenly he is outside and she is there and she is okay and she is warm against his chest as his arms snake around her shoulders and he presses his cheek against her hair.

She is Clarke, and she is _home_.

He weaves his hands into her blonde curls, and her face tilts up and she is _radiant_ , her eyes as bright as the sunlit sky and her smile as wide as that day in the drop ship when she had exuded relief. Before he can think anything else, she is leaning toward him and her lips are against his. They are warm, they are soft, but they are strong with the promise that she is here, she will always be here. And he his kissing her back, his lips moving with hers with a fervor that can never satisfy the need inside of him as her tongue sweeps across his bottom lip.

The kiss is gentle and fierce and loving and messy and all of the things it shouldn’t be, and yet it _is_. And Bellamy’s muddled thoughts tell him that he’s never felt as whole as he does when he is kissing Clarke Griffin.

When they finally separate, a lifetime later and still not enough, her cheeks are flushed and her lips as swollen as he imagines his are. She is beaming, and once again he feels a rush of joy at the thought that he is the reason for it.

His hands begin to work at the buckle that presses against the pulse point of his wrist.

“Your jewels, Princess,” he teases.

But her hands catch his, pulling them to a halt. He meets her eyes questioningly, and she shakes her head.

“No,” she says, and the warmth in her eyes spreads to his chest, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been so thrilled to be told not to do something. “Keep it.”

“Clarke—“

“Something to come home to.”

His chest tightens, and damn it if the back of his eyes don’t sting. He pulls her to his chest again and presses his lips to the top of her hair. Though he knows there is so much to talk about, he says nothing as he stands there for what feels like hours, his arms wrapped around her and the smell of her surrounding him, and he wonders if home may not be a place, but a person.

Because Bellamy thinks that Clarke Griffin might be his home.


End file.
